Run(16)

I stood there, frozen, as Bo ushered her mother to the trailer. I knew I was watching something that ought to be private. Something I ought not be a part of. But I was rooted to the spot. Maybe it was concern for Bo. Maybe it was just my own nosiness. Either way, I didn’t have a clue what to make of everything I’d just seen and heard.

Bo didn’t look back or say anything to me as she urged Mrs. Dickinson, who was still twitching, onto the rickety wooden porch. I waited, hoping she’d turn around and say something before they went inside. Tell me that it was gonna be okay or just say good-bye or … anything, really.

But all I got was the slamming of the screen door behind them.





“I know I’m white trash and all, but this is extreme, even for me.”

I pick up the rusty scissors we found in the Reliant K’s glove compartment and laugh, but Agnes just gives this half smile. She ain’t said much since we bought the shitty car a little over an hour ago, and it’s making me nervous. What if she’s changed her mind? What if she wants to go back home? Can’t say I’d blame her. Especially considering where we’re at right now.

The truck stop bathroom smells like sweat and piss. Soggy paper towels litter the sticky floor, and the walls are smeared with graffiti. Agnes don’t gotta see to know this place is a dump. But it’s the best we got for now.

“You sure about this, Bo?” she asks.

“Our pictures were on the news. We gotta make ourselves look different somehow.”

She nods and turns to face the mirror.

“Don’t be nervous,” I say. “Mama used to cut hair out of our trailer when I was little, and she taught me some. I had to cut her bangs.”

She makes a face, and it’s clear this ain’t much comfort.

I step behind her, scissors clutched in my hand. Her coal-black hair is so long, almost to her waist. I take a deep breath. “Here we go.” I start at the back, cutting slowly and carefully. She’s taller than me, so I gotta stand on my tiptoes. Locks of hair fall around us, getting on my T-shirt and in my mouth.

I remember doing this for Mama years back, before Daddy left. Remember her laughing as Daddy opened a beer and said, “That little girl’s gonna put your damn eye out if you ain’t careful.”

“I trust her more with these scissors than you,” Mama said. “Don’t care if she’s eight or eighty-seven.”

When I was done, Daddy took a look at my work. “Well, shit, Bo,” he said. “Ain’t too bad.”

“Can I cut your hair next, Daddy?” I’d asked.

“Maybe after a few more beers,” he said, chuckling as he kissed me on the top of my head.

There were a few nights like that when I was little. Where we’d all be laughing and talking and being nice to each other. Maybe even eating dinner together. Like I imagined the other families in town did. They’d only last for so long, though. Then, usually, both my folks would end up getting drunk and yelling at each other. But they started out good, at least.

Most of those good nights ended when Daddy left.

I spit some of Agnes’s hair onto the floor and keep cutting until I’ve given her a shoulder-length bob. It ain’t as pretty as before, but it ain’t terrible. “Turn around.”

She does.

“Close your eyes.”

She does.

I use my fingers to comb her hair in front of her face. I take a few careful snips. The scissors are dull, so they don’t cut quite right. But I manage to give her bangs. Long ones that stop just above her eyes. They ain’t even, but they’re good enough. She don’t look like the same clean-cut girl no more. Not at first glance anyway.

“Done.”

She steps away from me and looks in the mirror. I don’t know how much she can see, but the look on her face tells me she ain’t thrilled. She runs her fingers through the strands around her face and sighs. I wait for her to say something. Maybe make a joke. But she stays quiet.

I swallow. “All right. My turn.”

“What?”

“You gotta cut my hair now.”

“Bo, I can’t,” she says.

“Yeah, you can.”

“I’m blind.” She says it like I’ve done forgot.

“It ain’t gotta be pretty.” I put the scissors in her hand.

“What if I cut off your ear?”

“You won’t.”

“But your hair,” she mumbles. “It’s how I recognize you.”

“I should’ve cut it off forever ago. It’s always in the damn way. And you’ll find another way to recognize me. Just do it, all right? I wanna get out of this shithole.”

“Fine.”

I use both hands to smooth my hair back into a ponytail and hold it in one fist. “Cut the whole thing off.”

“Okay.” She steps closer. Her left hand slides along my face and neck. Eventually, her fingers settle over mine, gripping the ponytail while she chops at it. My hair is thick and wavy, and it takes a while to chop off the whole thing. When she’s done, I feel almost dizzy with the loss of all that weight.

I take the scissors from her and look in the mirror while I even up the sides a bit. When I’m done, it’s all I can do not to cry. Despite everything I said before, I hate this. My hair was a pain, a mess, but it was the only thing about me that was pretty. Now it’s choppy, cut to my ears, and I look like a little boy. Short and skinny and awkward.